THERE are many stories to be told about the streets of Paris, and author Terrance Gelenter is the man to guide you through some of the tales.
His latest book, From Bagels to Brioches: Paris Par Hasard, takes you around the coffee tables and bookstores of the capital where you will meet many interesting characters.
Here Terrance provides an extract from his book and offers up a stop at a famous café or two:
The café in France is not just a place to have that morning pick me up necessary to launch another day at the office. It is your home away from home. It’s the place where friends and family can find you. Your quotidian café defines you as distinctively as the clothes you wear and the profession you ply.
I asked a few Parisian pals to discuss their preferences. For broadcaster and biographer John Baxter it is the Danton, just down the street from his apartment at the corner of rue de L’Odéon and the boulevard St. Germain. From his perch he watches office workers descending into the metro, shoppers scurrying up boulevard St. Germain and flaneurs disappearing down the rue Mazarine past the unopened art galleries, en route to the Seine and the Pont des Arts or the Pont Neuf.
When staying in Paris at their sixteenth arrondisement pied-à-terre, Normandy based authors Don and Petie Kladstrup habituate the Malakof at the Place de Trocadero. It was the first café they tried when they arrived in Paris twenty-five years ago. They are invariably served by the same waiter, who in uncharacteristic non-French fashion, always asks about the other when he attends one in the company of a colleague of the opposite sex, as in “And how is Madame, Monsieur?”
Changing Cafés
Parisian habitués of the sixth arrondissement break down into one of two categories: Magoistes or Floristes, depending on which of the great cafés they frequent. Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre sat side-by-side writing upstairs on the first floor of Le Flore and Hemingway often visited Les Deux Magots. Snobby French will argue that Le Flore has fewer tourists and others prefer the broad terraces and spectacular views of the boulevard at Les Deux Magots.
For the past fifteen years I was a confirmed Magoiste but no more. Two years ago my favorite waiter, Raymond, of the waxed moustaches, twinkly eyes and unfailing charm, retired and his disciple, the young, affable, English-speaking Jérome was killed in a motorcycle accident. I can’t walk by without feeling their presence while noting their absence.
My flirtation with Le Flore began several years ago when I would meet my friend Kathy for passionate political discussions over wine or coffee. Through her I became acquainted with other regulars and began dividing my time.
And my landlord, Diane Johnson, stakes me to a tea or coffee when I meet her to pay the rent. You are also more likely to meet internationally known writers, journalists or actors who know that they can work undisturbed, privacy in plain view. Recent sightings have included Sofia Coppola and Sharon Stone, albeit with an entourage – the smaller the star, the bigger the show.
On my first Sunday back from an extended US holiday vacation I grabbed the last available table on the terrace and ordered what is now my ritual breakfast – a fluffy omelet of jambon and fromage. Seated to my right, easily recognizable by his signature Afro-Jewfro hairstyle, was Malcolm Gladwell, author of THE TIPPING POINT, BLINK, and THE OUTLIERS and a regular contributor to The New Yorker magazine. I complimented him on his work and attacked my omelet but it wasn’t long before we shared a lively exchange about publishing, media, business and Paris.
I will, of course, periodically return to Les Deux Magots, the departure point for my ‘Paris au Flaneur’ tour and a great spot for a pre-dinner apéro, but if you need to find me try the Flore terrace after eleven most Sundays and some Saturdays.
The Parisian Waiter
Easily identified with his white shirt, bow tie, black trousers and short jacket with many pockets to hold the tools of his trade, he is efficient, distant or charming, but always professional. His job is a career and not a stop on the way through college. He is proud and knowledgeable and up until now he is never a woman.
I’d been a regular at Les Deux Magots since 1995 and number four Raymond Costes has been dispensing coffee and charm since 1980. Even back then when my French was a shadow of its current level of proficiency I was always greeted with a smile and stellar, courteous service. As my French improved our conversations have become more personal. Even the most ‘American’ of tourists, struggling with French but polite are treated with patience and courtesy.
At the end of his ten-hour shift, starting at 6 am to set up the tables and chairs on the terrace and change into the classic French waiters uniform, we sat down on the terrace for a glass of wine and a chat, in French, about his life at Les Deux Magots.
Raised in Rodez in the Aveyron, he was the oldest of seven children and worked on the family farm. They raised cows and mutton for the milk used in Roquefort. In 1969, after six months of obligatory National Service, family friends who owned the Café Terpsichore, a brasserie near the Opéra-Garnier, gave him a job. It is now a branch of Chez Clement. He learned the business from A-Z starting as a plongeur (dishwasher). In 1980 he walked into Les Deux Magots and presented his qualifications to the manager and two weeks later he was hired.
Raymond has all of the qualities you need to be a good waiter – love of your work and pleasure in the contact with people. Some of his famous clients have included François Mitterand, before he became President – a fan of chocolat chaud, Bill Clinton, and from the fashion world, Christian Lacroix and Yamamoto.
From his thirty years of service nothing topped the following experience:
“One New Year’s Eve a man sat down at 8 pm and waited for his date who never showed up. Over the course of the evening he ate dinner, drank lots of wine and after midnight he went to his car and brought back the gift he had intended for the lady, a fur coat. He asked if I were married and when I said ‘yes’ he handed me the coat for my wife.”